


And I Just Wanted You To Know, That This Is Me Trying

by ThoughtfulMess



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Baking, Class Differences, Cottagecore, Dwarves, Five Years Later, Fluff, Found Family, Happy Ending, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, The Shire, believe it or not thorin is alive-elaborate on that-no, bilbo thinks thorin is dead so, but hes not so no worries, but not really elaborated on, for LOTR, i mean its a made up holiday, just one hobbit lady tho, kind of, kissing underneath the moon because the moon is gay no i dont take criticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtfulMess/pseuds/ThoughtfulMess
Summary: After returning to the Shire, Bilbo takes in a young Frodo, raising him up in Bag-End. But events, and long-lost people, from his past still plague him. Go back to his books and armchair, he had, and yet a certain dwarf still seemed missing. How can someone go through all of what he did and still fit into normal hobbit society? And what happens when the supposedly dead dwarven king turns up? Kid Frodo and Sam, Bilbo's knack of worrying, and Perfectly Sane and Loving Thorin, within!
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee
Comments: 19
Kudos: 132





	1. (you're a flashback in a film reel)

**Author's Note:**

> hello! I played with the timelines a bit because I absolutely love the concept of Bilbo adopting Frodo right away, Frodo making friends with Sam who is not yet the gardener, and Bilbo doing his best to manage young hobbit kids running in and out of Bag-End. I also of course, made Thorin alive-just like every other Thorin/Bilbo fanfic on here haha. I also have not read the silmarillon so please be kind if I messed something up in a major way, although it shouldn't be necessary because this is mostly just domestic fluff. oh! title(s) taken from Taylor Swift's song This Is Me Trying. hope you enjoy!!

If he went to the market square, the ever-bustling market square, with its stands of ripe fruit and newly harvested vegetables, the tarts that seemed to spill from rickety shelves with sheer abundance, disturbed slightly with each passerby, and the tender scent of meat, roasting on a spit, he would tell you that despite all these fine fruits and meats and vegetables and tarts and whatever else that happened to be there at any given time, it was not a very fine place at all. In fact, returning home to the Shire, Bilbo Baggins would tell you that he supposed he had become the type to avoid places like that, now. Not that the market, on any day, or especially Sundays, when it was most crowded for the new week, had gotten any less merry. Bilbo would then tell you that he figured it had only gotten exceedingly merry over the years, and perhaps more so while he was gone on his adventure, than he had ever seen it. That is of course, considering you knew at least half of the hobbits there and you were on good enough terms with more than half of the farmers and blacksmiths and bakers to get you a bargain price; well then it could be a very jolly place indeed. 

The Shire, in its entirety, typically tended to be a simple and down-to-earth place, all things considered. No monsters, no dragons, no war, and certainly no adventures. For all intents and purposes the Shire was a domestic place, for hobbits and their families to live unaffected and homely lives in their little hobbit holes. Bilbo knew what it was to live that sort of life, granted, not the wife and plentiful kids part of it, but the parts of it which were focused on tea and armchairs and a strict tending to the flowers outside the door every morning. Bilbo knew it and yet, couldn’t seem to relate to it anymore. His scope of the outside world had been expanded greatly in so short a time, and he simply couldn’t seem to remember what it was like to worry about dishes being broken, or waistcoats that needed to be patched. He was a gentlehobbit, that much was certain, tied to his identity like a wine stain on a collar, and yet, there seemed to be a great and unbridgeable gap between the Bilbo of present and the gentlehobbit Bilbo Baggins of past. And with this final thought, a small hand tugged on his shirtsleeve. 

“Uncle Bilbo?” the hobbit-child whispered, hesitatingly. 

“Yes my dear Frodo?” Bilbo replied in turn. 

“Have we gone the wrong way? We’ve been walking for  _ ages,  _ and my feet hurt! But we’re still not any closer to home!”

“So we are, Frodo” Bilbo whispered, looking down at the ground. A sharp burst of shame overtook him then. He had  _ obligations  _ and  _ responsibility,  _ he couldn’t wander the streets of Hobbiton as simple as you please, there were tasks to get done, chores to fulfill, and, the most pressing matter at hand, a very hungry hobbit-lad to feed. He resolved to push his worries to the side, enclose them in a locked drawer at the back of his mind, and focus on the present. Get yourself together, Bilbo, he thought to himself, you can’t be fretting over this and that and identities and society and what have you at a time like this-not when Frodo needs someone to look after him properly. And so he turned himself around and, grabbing little Frodo’s hand, he made a brisk walk towards Bag-End. However, just as he and Frodo were set to walk straight inside that round green door, he was caught off his guard by a matronly hobbit woman, tapping her feet as she sat on the bench. 

“Mr. Baggins!” She started, in her quavery voice. “Mr. Baggins I have been waiting out here for nigh on an hour. Your gardener even dared to approach me and tell me that I had ought to start on home, as he supposed you wouldn’t be around for who knows how long. The nerve!” 

Bilbo tried to interject. “I’m terribly sorry-” 

“ _ Clearly _ , you aren’t,” She said pointedly, indicating towards his muddy feet and basket full of tomatoes from the market. “However, being an upstanding hobbit like myself, I won’t begrudge you for going off to market when you weren’t aware that guests could be popping ‘round for visits. In fact, I’d encourage you to spend more time out of doors. You know, there are...people, Mr. Baggins, and I won’t say who on my honor, but yea, people who have been spreading awfully nasty rumors. What sorts? Well I couldn’t say. You’ve gotten quite, shall we say,  _ queer,  _ in your advanced age. But I wouldn’t repeat anything that’s been going around, no indeed. Not while your nephew stands here. No indeed.” 

“Was there anything you needed from me, er, Mrs-” 

“What? Mr. Baggins, my good faith has brought me here upon your doorstep. For such reason alone I have taken it upon myself to rectify the wrongs I see in this society. I am the lone harbinger of good upstanding and fine hobbits in these lands, and I shall not see my lovely Shire degraded in such ways.” 

“In what, um, ways, would that be?”

“What? Oh, well I’m starting small. Little fish, big pond, as they say. Firstly, these rumors I mentioned. I wish to eradicate them entirely, I see no reason to debase high society with such, with such,  _ gossip.  _ The only way I see to mitigate them would be for you to fix your faults yourself. Become the gentlehobbit you once were, Mr. Baggins, and I see no reason for anyone to speak of you in such terrible terms as they are now.” 

“And how, ma’am, pray tell, would I ‘fix’ myself?”

“Why, marry a fine hobbit lass of course! Frodo needs a mother, don’t you see? He can’t grow into a fine hobbit-lad without the warm and comforting bosom of a caring mother! You see, I have a daughter myself, right around your age, would step right into the house and mother duties right away. Awfully wonderful hobbit-lass she is, capable of multitasking and completing any chore you throw her way. She-” 

Bilbo finally managed to interject. “I’m sorry, but I simply am not looking to marry as of right now. I’m sure your daughter is, as you say, wonderful and comely, however marriage is just not something I am looking for, thank you.” 

“Bilbo Baggins I am sure you will live to regret this. I am only trying to look out for your reputation and well-being.”

“Yes and I thank you, once again. Good day.”

The offended hobbit made a single huff and walked back down the hill from whence she came. 

“What a piece of work,” Bilbo snorted. “Talking like she’s doing some great deed by telling me what I should and should not be doing. As if I need help, ha!”

“Do you need help, Uncle?”

“What?” Bilbo whirled around to face the little hobbit. “No, no, I have done perfectly fine without, I don’t see any reason to start now. Unless...you, my dear Frodo, are feeling lonely? I mean, and it could be understood, that it is rather lonesome up here for a fauntling like you. Of course it could be said that you miss living in Brandybuck Hall; I could see if the Brandybucks could send Merry up for a visit, that is to say that-oh who am I kidding. Frodo, and I’ll say it plain, do you wish to live with a family again?” 

“Uncle...no...I only,” And here Frodo stopped and dug his heel into the dirt. “ _ You  _ are the one who seems lonely. I mean-” 

“ _ Me? _ ” Bilbo scoffed. Himself lonely? What a funny idea. Why, he’s been living alone since his own parents died, all those years ago. Books and armchairs and baked goods, what more could one need? Fill your belly up with warm bread, smell the freshly blooming flowers from out the rotund windows, what more, indeed. Of course, an internal voice supplied, there was that time when you  _ weren’t  _ lonely, when you had plenty of  **_dwarven_ ** friends, and when you sidled up to Thorin, became an unlikely pair, and knew him, utterly- striking and remarkable, and frankly, splendid, confident, kind, courageous, loyal,  _ beautiful  _ but _ - _ Bilbo shook his head to clear his mind. It wouldn’t do to think about-. No, Mr. Bilbo Baggins wasn’t lonely at all, and, if he was, you wouldn’t be able to catch it, not when he was out and about, visiting the square or the Green Dragon, no, but maybe in those quiet moments, when small peat fires turned into visions of dragon fire and dwarven battle cries, or when the queen bed in the darkness seemed to be ever so much colder, seemed to swallow him whole, would be softer and more plush than the hard outdoor ground, but as of that moment, simply not better than the warmth of thirteen dwarves snoring and the last remaining embers filling the campsite with smoke; well then, indeed, maybe Bilbo was, a little, maybe just a tad, bit lonely. 

Frodo tried to respond, “I don’t know Uncle-” 

“Now, Frodo, why don’t we head inside, we’ve been standing by this doorstep for long enough I daresay, and I’m certain you’ve been hankering for some supper by now.”

“Will there be mushrooms?” Frodo said, bright eyed.

“Plenty of mushrooms, indeed.” Bilbo responded with a gentle smile, ruffling the top of Frodo’s head. “Plenty of mushrooms, indeed,” he repeated, fondly, watching Frodo scamper off, leaving trails of mud in his wake. It was as if he was remembering his own days of frolicking and joviality. Far into the past were those days now, and yet, the passionate flames of youth still seemed to shake his core every once in a while, causing him to appear spontaneous and eager, adventure and fervency thrumming through his very bones. Those were the days when he’d find the chest of knick knacks he’d acquired through his adventure, all dusty and left behind, and pull out Sting, his old sword, waving it around and fancying himself a brave warrior, more dwarven than hobbit, and aching for the adrenaline there once was. But, Bilbo once again cleared his mind with a small shake, he was simply a proper hobbit, living in the Shire. Nothing wrong with the Shire per say, it was just hard to shed that persona, like a snake, of his that he’d lived for over a year, it was entwined with every part of his being and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to shake it. 

Much later, days later in fact, although a similar routine throughout, he found himself flopping into his armchair, early in the evening. A weariness crept over him, settling itself deep within his mind, like large burrowed roots from a hoary willow. Would it be like this, forever? Aging, aging, aging, while others never aged at all? While others, buried beneath stone, beneath frigid mountain tops, never moved, never breathed, encased evermore within the stagnancy of death? And yet, Bilbo would have to live and live and live and live, seeing bright new days with ever-failing eyes, until the sunrises and roads and books all became smeary in their umbers. And then through it all, would he be vastly and unerringly alone? Sitting there, in his familiar hobbit hole, he felt small and unimportant, as if nothing he had ever done, or ever will do, or was currently doing, had ever been of any consequence at all. A simple hobbit, just a simple silly little gentlehobbit, not the same one who stood up against orcs, conversed with dragons, and, who in the midst of great battle, did not back down. Certainly not the same hobbit. While in this sort of trance, Bilbo inattentively watched the fading sunlight glance off the wooden panels of his home, not paying any mind to the passage of time. He thought maybe, that if he were to sit there, in that decrepit armchair, sit there indefinitely perhaps, that he would wither away to nothingness, become like nature itself, eventually succumbing to his own life-course. So lost was he in these thoughts that he did not hear the joyful singing from under the window, nor did he hear the door opening, and he most certainly did not hear the sound of little hobbit-feet scurrying towards the kitchen. 

It was only when he heard the sound of something crashing, and, possibly, breaking, that he suddenly became alert. There, as he rushed to the kitchen, were two young hobbit-lads, covered from head to toe with flour, looking nearly ashamed, but mostly ecstatic at what they had created-a  _ very  _ lopsided and almost burnt raspberry jam cake. 

“Look Mr. Bilbo! Look what we made! Cake!” called Sam, the second of the guilty hobbits, to Bilbo, standing dumbfounded in the doorway. 

“Cake…” Bilbo mumbled to himself, sweeping his gaze at the mess. Pots and pans and cutlery stood covered in batter, lying across all the counters, dirty dish towels had been cast carelessly to the floor, and, from what Bilbo could see, the source of the crash he had heard seemed to have come from a great stack of prized silverware that had fallen off one of the taller shelves, landing scattered and everywhere. 

Frodo’s gaze followed Bilbo’s and he flushed a little in embarrassment. “Sam’n’I will clean it up, honest!” he said, with a note of apology in his voice. “But we made this cake to celebrate, ‘cause we always have a party to-day, and you promised!”

“Party today…” Party...why, oh yes, it  _ was  _ that day, then. The day when thirteen dwarves invaded his home (and his heart, that pesky internal voice reminded him), and he made a decision to accompany them. The five year anniversary date since then, three with Frodo in his home, where he had taken to spreading out a splendid feast, akin to the ones the dwarves had made, after ransacking his pantry. It had slipped his mind with everything, but it wouldn’t do to disappoint Frodo and his friend Sam, who Frodo had clearly invited over for the occasion. 

“Alright lads,” Bilbo said, putting a small smile on his face. “A very fine cake you made, but now let’s clean this up and start on the  _ real  _ meal. It wouldn’t do to have cake for supper and fill yourselves up on sweets now, would it?” He finished this statement pointedly, eyeing the lopsided cake with edges that had been clearly picked off by little fingers. 

And with that, the children hurried to clean, not only themselves but the entire kitchen, and soon stood before Bilbo, bright eyed and full of mirth. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel gladdened by the sight, and his spirits lifted immeasurably. Maybe there would be times when he felt lost and insignificant, but there would also be times when gladness pervaded the home, and childlike wonder would abound, to combat it. Bilbo was sure that there would be plenty more days of despair to reckon with, but the sense of foreboding at the moment left him, and only a pleasant cheer remained. If he could do one thing right, it would be to raise Frodo, and he did this as best he could, with love, safety, plentiful meals shared with each other, and joy filled songs sung about the kitchen, the washroom, and anywhere that Bilbo felt deserved a song at any given moment. Children would always be children, in this age or the next, and Bilbo knew that, so he always tried to make room for Frodo and his spontaneous impulses; whether that be jumping into puddles, catching fireflies way past Frodo’s bedtime, or simply letting him go play out in the fields with Sam, skipping his lessons, then Bilbo allowed that as often as he could without being too remiss in parental duties. Yes, he had been a little off in terms of his mood as of late, even enough to start worries with the town-folk, as he had been so rudely reminded, and he acknowledged this, promising to do better. He simply needed to forge ahead, leave the past in the past, and focus on the concerns of  _ now- _ not the ones that would wake him up in the middle of the night, instinct and memory calling to surface remnants of cruel, terrifying orcs, and shadows of friends saying their final goodbyes, gasping out last breaths in his arms. Yes, although the concerns of  _ now  _ were much less life threatening, they still needed to be looked after, and by Yavanna, he would try his hardest to follow them through. Something caught his eye, or rather, his nose, the smell of the supper permeating the kitchen, snapping him back to attention. He chuckled a bit to himself with this, he seemed nowadays like he was frequently shaking himself out of his thoughts, as if thoughts were just pesky louses needed to be shaken off. He tried to focus himself back into the moment, watching as the two friends chopped vegetables and stirred stovetop stews and mashed potatoes. The two were boisterously singing together, a string of nonsense rhyming phrases, bouncing each line off of each other. “Making a stew is a great thing to do!” Bilbo heard one call, off pitch. The other responded in turn, “And making stew is what we do!” And at this, Bilbo continued to watch as they sung the last line together arm in arm, Sam specifically swinging a wooden spoon wildly: “Oh stew, what a grand stew, made for me and you!” But before the last note could fully ring out, a heavy knock sounded throughout the house. 


	2. (and maybe I don't quite know what to say, but I'm here in your doorway)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's entrance scene! It became kind of long so I'm extending this fic into three chapters. stay tuned for the last one :D

“I’ll get it!” Frodo shouted, his eagerness unceasing. Bilbo knew it was probably more uninteresting than Frodo’s tone indicated, maybe Hamfast looking to bring Sam home, or a neighbor inquiring after sugar or eggs, so he stayed behind, letting Frodo spring after the mystery of who exactly was at the door. 

Frodo clumsily slipped on the door mat and slapped his hand on the door handle, forgetting all propriety that came with being a master of Bag-End. No calm and cool demeanor, no ‘hello’ and a handshake, simply excitement painted on his face and breaths whooshing out of him as he tried to catch his breath from sprinting. He flung open the door and was immediately faced with a dwarf. A bulky, travel-worn actual, real-live, dwarf, clad in multiple layers, with a somewhat nervous looking glint in his eyes. 

Frodo lost all breath that he had managed to regain, and his mouth flopped open like a fish on market day. His excitement from before seemed to have increased tenfold, and he stood there, nearly shaking, like he was physically about to burst from all the energy that seemed to be flowing off of his two feet tall body in waves. 

“You’re not a hobbit,” he, suddenly remembering how to speak, said, plainly but without malice. 

“No,” the dwarf replied in a deep, rumbling voice. “My name is Thorin, and you, small one, may call me as such. I am sure there are not many other Thorin's hereabouts.”

“ _ Thorin _ ?” the hobbit cried, his continual excitement rising exponentially by the second, to the point where Thorin was indeed very worried about the young hobbit’s well-being. No invitation inside had been given yet, either. The door hung ajar, as if it, too, were gaping it’s mouth wide in astonishment. “ _ Thorin _ ?” he repeated. “ _ Thorin?? _ Like from the stories? Like from the stories that Bilbo tells?” This left Thorin’s head spinning,  _ stories? What stories? Bilbo??  _ But before he could get a word in to ask, the hobbit laughed and cried out. “Sam! Sam, come here! You’ll never guess who’s at the door!” 

Sam rushed in too, curls flopping wildly. “Who is it Frodo-” he started, but immediately stopped dead, all colour draining from his face. 

“Is this-” he sputtered, looking at Frodo-the hobbit who he had met at the door, Thorin surmised-promptly forgetting the concept of basic speech entirely. He tried to form more words but he couldn’t manage, and instead, his eyes bulged and his eyebrows seemed to fly right off his face. “Is-” he tried again, but gave up and just waved his hands in the air as if that would indicate his meaning. 

“Yes,” Frodo said, smiling broadly at Sam. “You know, the one from the stories. You remember?”

“Of course I remember, Bilbo tells them every year. I didn’t truly think that they could be real, but-. Always thought he was just, was just, well,  _ mad,  _ like everyone says. Exciting stories indeed, but never-”

“But look, Sam! It is  _ the  _ Thorin Oakenshield, the king of Erebor, the leader of the company, Bilbo’s-,” he cut this sentence off before he could finish, casting an eye at the very confused dwarf for a brief moment, and then continued, “and the one who slew  _ orcs  _ and  _ goblins  _ like it was nothing at all! The hero, Sam! Didn’t you say you wished you could be like him, all ‘wonderfully brave and loyal’ you said- I think-that one time. Well here he stands! Alive!” 

But that last statement gave him pause and he whirled around to face Thorin once again. “Alive? How  _ are  _ you alive exactly? We don’t allow any strange magicks in this house-if that’s what you are-save for Gandalf, Bilbo says.” 

“Gandalf’s fireworks!” Sam cut in, clapping his hands. “Do you know Gandalf, sir,” he said, addressing Thorin directly. 

“Of course he knows Gandalf! They were together on the adventure weren’t they?” 

“Oh, yes, right.”

“But Sam, can you believe? Thorin, right here! The very same that Bilbo talks about! Seemingly not dead at all.”

“Right, right” Sam muttered, taking a deep bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance sir, seeing that you truly are alive and all.” 

Thorin smiled at the strange little hobbits, who were, thankfully, cautious against newcomers, even ones they had supposedly already heard about, the latter surprising Thorin unendingly. Thorin wasn’t sure how these young hobbits were affiliated with Bilbo,  _ maybe sons,  _ his mental voice supplied, but hobbits couldn’t possibly grow that fast, and yet. But all in all, they seemed to know him so his hopes raised a fair amount. Maybe they could take him to Bilbo, or, at the very least, point him in the right direction if he somehow had knocked on the wrong door. He managed to get a word in. “Could you lads tell me where I might find this Bilbo, the teller of such interesting tales you speak of?”

“Oh!” Frodo cried. “Oh, oh, sorry sorry, Bilbo says, well, Bilbo says I must be polite and introduce myself. My name is Frodo Baggins," He said, putting out his hand. When Thorin's scarred hand met his, it was warm, encouraging Frodo to believe that Thorin may be alive after all and not just a wraith, or something equally as malicious as he could imagine. He smiled then and continued, "My name is Frodo Baggins, nephew of Bilbo Baggins, and this is Samwise Gamgee, who lives down on Bagshot Row. We're best friends and he comes over nearly every day! Oh! And we made a cake today didn't we, Sam?" 

"Yes! We did! Splendid cake. Raspberry. Do you like raspberry, sir?" 

"I do," Thorin replied. 

Frodo, still flustered, cut in again. "Oh, right! You're still looking for Bilbo. He helped us make a grand meal today. It's a holiday, he says, the day of-" He stopped himself, once more remembering who he was talking to, and schooled his excitement. 

"Bilbo!" he called loudly, so as to carry throughout the expansive house. 

Now Bilbo, who had been patiently puttering about the kitchen, had paid no mind to the proceedings at the door. Best to just let the young hobbits take care of it, they needed to learn how to properly receive guests and all. But, hearing his name called, he set down the dough he was kneading, and wiped his face, unknowingly smearing flour on his cheeks. 

"Who is it Frodo?" He called back, a little exasperated at being interrupted, but, not wanting to reflect that, intentionally put a note of cheerfulness in his voice. 

But to Thorin, who now stood on the little welcome rug, that voice, one he hadn't dared to hope to hear for years, no matter the cadence or quality, set his nerves alight. 

Quiet footsteps padded towards the door and then stopped dead in its tracks. 

"Thorin" the same voice said, now infinitely quieter and unbearably hopeful. 

The little hobbit, whom he hadn’t seen since war ravaged Erebor, and Thorin’s body lay mangled and bloody across his lap, the hobbit himself-battle worn and bruised-now stood before him dressed up smartly, with a crisp cravat and a waistcoat, and, to Thorin’s quiet amusement, an embroidered apron, streaked with jam and flour. Thorin was gladdened, however, to see Bilbo once again in his natural habitat, looking peaceful and content, like he had before the terrifying journey. And this thought, for one bone-chilling moment, made Thorin doubt himself entirely, and think that maybe he should never have come at all. Thorin thought himself a rock, tossed into a tranquil pool, causing ripples. A disturber of idyll. Regrets rose to the forefront of his mind. He never wanted to bring Bilbo pain, drag him along through peril after peril, he wanted this,  _ this,  _ life for Bilbo, one filled with serenity, a blissful halcyon, free from any agony or pain. Maybe he could still turn back. A fit of madness it was, to return to the Shire, believing that Bilbo would accept him with open arms. He had been mad before, and seemingly mad again, and simply, selfish. Selfish. To think that he, he who brought death and destruction wherever he went, could possibly fit into this sort of life. His dreams and hopes crashed, like glass, like avalanches, and he wondered if perhaps he could back out, leave hastily with apologies spilling from his lips. Best to distance himself, no matter what his heart told him. He managed to open his mouth to stumble through excuses to leave, but before he could, he was being enveloped in a warm hug. 

“Thorin,” Bilbo gasped against his chest. The hobbit’s breaths were coming faster, and becoming hitched with each inhale, and, oh no, was he crying? Thorin’s hands, which had instinctively pulled Bilbo closer, let go of their tight grip around his waist, and instead raised to Bilbo’s face, gently cupping and tilting upward to make eye contact. 

“Bilbo,” he replied, trying to fit everything he felt into that one word. His previous doubts were quickly being dispersed of, disintegrating with each second that Bilbo looked at him with that defining look in his eyes. 


	3. (I Didn't Know If You'd Care If I Came Back)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions. Mostly internal. Love? Let's find out. Kind of sappy, kind of sweet, mostly sentences with absurd amounts of commas. Starts immediately after the last chapter.

It had been too long, too long, since they had embraced each other, or even, been near enough to entertain the idea of embracing. If, Thorin thought, if he could simply have this, Bilbo in his arms, no words to entangle feelings in such a maze that one feels like they cannot come to the same meaning as the other, no, just this overwhelming emotion spreading through him, making him want to hold and cradle until there is nothing left to rip them apart again. He had no greater desire-not even gold could rival-than that of the desire to look upon Bilbo day after day, aging and aging together, facing each new sunrise with a smile and ever-failing eyes. If he had been uncertain before, seeing Bilbo in his natural element, feeling like he was intruding, he couldn’t possibly be now, now after finding out Bilbo’s arms were exactly what  _ home  _ felt like. In all the days of fighting and raging and harboring ever-growing grudges, he had never imagined to feel this kind of affection for another being, that is, barring his kin. There was no time nor energy to spend on useless things like love. And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? 

_ Love.  _

As he met Bilbo’s watery eyes, five years since the last time he gazed into them, so pained then and yet, elated and bright now, as he felt Bilbo’s willowy-in dwarven standards-frame press against his, as he whispered  _ Bilbo,  _ again, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head, well, then, it was obvious wasn’t it? He could feel it zinging about his heart, making it race faster and faster, as if it, too, wanted to run towards what it knew to be the epitome of everything he had ever wanted, everything he hadn’t even dared to dream, and yet still thought about, in his years as a young dwarven teen, gazing up at the vaulted ceilings, hoping and hoping and hoping for something this special to be graced to him, this aboundless, fantastical, searing love. And here it was, and here he was, and damn if he wasn’t going to grasp onto it with everything he had. 

For all that he had lost, for all they had both lost, for the pain and the peril and the grief, did they not deserve this, together? Would it hurt anyone for him to take Bilbo’s hand and kiss the knuckles, marvelling at the unblemished clean skin, so different from the one he knew on the journey? If he was not king, and there was nothing betwixt to stop them, no invisible boundary lines, no propriety or should he shouldn’t he’s, then simply, what was still stopping him? 

“Er, I think the bread you put in may be burning, uncle..?” An awkward voice declared. 

Thorin, startled, jumped back from the ongoing embrace, and smoothed out his features. Another time, then. Another time, later time, when he would present Bilbo with his epiphany, and hope and pray that it was not too late. But for now he smiled at the hobbit children, and smirked a little when he took notice of some flour splashed across Bilbo’s chin. Wiping it off with his thumb gently he soon backed away with a nod. Yes, plenty of time later. 

Frodo skipped ahead, leading the group back to the kitchen. Which smelled absolutely  _ heavenly.  _ A hobbit’s wonders never cease, Thorin thought amusedly. Throughout the span of the evening, the kitchen had been bustling, Sam and Frodo creating more of a mess than they really helped, and Bilbo fluttering about in his trademarked hobbit flustery, tending to the main dishes, including the stew, creating more desserts, (muffins, pies, sweetbreads), and thoroughly presenting a spread that would put even the most party and feast-inclined hobbits to shame. And Thorin could do little more than stand there admiring the platters. Sam noticing, joined him. 

“Quite a terrific celebration meal, isn’t it Mr. Thorin? Bilbo puts one on like this for me’n’Frodo, every year.”

“And what are we celebrating, then?”

“Frodo didn’t tell you? Why, it’s the day when all you dwarves barged in here without poor Mr. Bilbo knowing, and he had to create meals outta thin air to feed the lot of you. Quite a bit of work to feed thirteen dwarves, I imagine, but it’s just me’n’Frodo nowadays, so tisn’t too hard.”

This new information stunned Thorin. Bilbo  _ celebrated _ the day when they met? He truly thought them all significant enough to mark the calendars and put on a  _ celebration  _ just in honor and memory of them all? Even without them there? Knowing this, he was truly astounded by the fact that Bilbo held these dwarves so close to his heart. But, perhaps, he shouldn’t have been so surprised, he thought, reasonably. Had Bilbo not shown time and time again how far he would go to protect, to save, to love the company in its entirety? Bilbo was so incredibly strong and kind, it was amazing that he even glanced towards Thorin at all, and the fact that he did made Thorin feel all kinds of grateful. In that moment, gazing upon the still-hot meal, he could feel the weight of his love settle comfortably in his chest. If he was unsure before, even just a tad, even just a little bit, well he certainly couldn’t be anymore. Bilbo was  _ everything.  _ Bilbo was sweet and gracious and good, and frankly, courageous, loyal,  _ beautiful.  _ No, there were no doubts. He wished to traverse forever alongside Bilbo, through winter storms, through summer breezes. To the ends of Arda, to the twinkling lights of the stars. There was no place he would rather be. 

“I do celebrate it every year, you know. And, well, Sam and Frodo seem to enjoy it. I am glad you are here with me, Thorin, I can’t even begin to-well. I am glad that you have come, it is more than I could have hoped for. I apologize about the mess,” Bilbo said, waving his hand vaguely. 

“No need,” Thorin said, turning around, with a nearly reverent look in his eyes, “I find it deeply enjoyable to be back here in Bag-End. I thank you for letting me into your home again.”

“Well, I can’t think of a better place for you to be. Now, that cake over there, that’s the one that Frodo and Sam have been raving about. I’m not too sure if it’s any good but they’ll be disappointed if the great  _ dwarven king  _ doesn’t like it. Please, do try it.” He said, with a fond little push. 

Now as he watched Thorin stack his plate full of food, and dutifully answer all of Frodo’s and Sam’s questions as they all sat around the table, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel that this was what Bag-End had been missing. His chair, his kitchen, his home, his heart, it had always been meant to have Thorin in it, seemingly. Before, when he had thought Thorin to be dead, he had grieved and then continued on with his life. But now, he realized,  _ now  _ it seemed like that hadn’t been any kind of living at all. Things were more complete when Thorin was in them, and even in the hours time-span since he had first shown up, cautious and travel-worn, Thorin filled the empty spaces in his heart so well he couldn’t imagine what it felt like without. Bilbo hoped, in his innermost being, that Thorin’s unexpected visit wasn’t going to be just a cordial social call, a week’s stay and then a how-de-do and a wave-Bilbo hoped, deeply hoped, that he and Thorin wouldn’t part ways, that Thorin would stay there, until they both grew old and then returned to the earth, and then, even then, still by each other’s side. 


	4. (At Least I'm Trying)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions again, but now external. A tender kiss. Excessive moon metaphors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter woooo thanks for going on this thorin/bilbo trip with me :D

This easy peaceful feeling followed him for the remainder of the evening, until the moon had risen and shone her beautiful white light all around, and the young hobbits were nearly falling asleep on each other’s shoulders. Bilbo watched them, smile-lines forming in the corner of his eyes, and yawned and stretched himself. 

“Alright, now, it’s off to bed with you two. Frodo, show Sam where the extra blankets are.” Bilbo said, as he tried his best to encourage the kids to go off to bed so he could clean the kitchen and maybe, properly talk to Thorin.

“Aww, Uncle…” Frodo pouted, now suddenly wide awake. He whipped his head over to Thorin, whose large figure was slumped in the well-worn armchair. “Mr. Thorin, why don’t you tell us a story? Last one for tonight, promise. Right off to bed. Cross my heart.” 

Thorin blinked slowly. “All right. One more tale, I suppose. So long as your uncle doesn’t mind too terribly.” 

Bilbo shook his head in acknowledgement, and Thorin spared a glance over to Bilbo, warm and content by the fireside, the lingering flames catching an almost impish glint in his eyes, and continued. 

“Well-ahem-It is of my understanding that Bilbo has told you about the adventure that we undertook, but, seeing as you haven't heard it from my perspective-” He cleared his throat and continued. His voice seemed to span mountains and valleys and fens and bogs and everyone was utterly enraptured by the way his story flowed, like deep and ancient rivers, rushing languidly yet steadily, ever steadily, and continuing ever on and on. In time, the fire dimmed, the flames burning low, and even Sam, who had been the most enthusiastic the whole time, seemed to nod off a little. It was there that Thorin stopped his story, with a subdued mumble of “The rest for a later time…” whereupon he stood up and walked toward the kitchen, presumably to help with the dishes or some other vague chore. 

Later, when Bilbo had herded the hobbit children to bed, and Thorin had quietly washed and dried most of the dishes, they stood there together, alone, for the first time in five years, and Bilbo had absolutely no idea what to say. Or think, or feel, for that matter. But in that moment, he stood there, hands in pockets, trying desperately to calm some of the nervous fidgeting he was prone to do. 

“Well.” He decided on saying. Certainly not the best conversation starter, but it had its desired effect-Thorin setting a plate down, squaring his shoulders, and turning around to look at Bilbo. 

“Well” Thorin countered. 

And if Bilbo didn’t know what to say before, he absolutely did not now, confronted with Thorin face-to-face. Not when Thorin stood there, tall and stately, and outlined by the few flickering candles and the moonlight pouring in from the round window. Not when his hands seemed to flex and curl around the lip of the counter as he leaned back, or when his mouth turned up in a sort of half-smile-a rarity for him-or even when Bilbo couldn’t help but notice...and wasn’t that something?  _ Noticing.  _

Everything about Thorin seemed to catch on the edges of Bilbo’s consciousness, until Bilbo would suddenly realize that his mind was full-up with images and thoughts and memories-even after all these years, after all these years, all his former feelings came flooding back, and it was like nothing had ever changed. And with that he was utterly enthralled, wholly bewitched and spellbound and  _ captivated,  _ that, well, if he had held onto any last wish that he could have said something formal and cordial to Thorin, it was entirely lost now, and now he could only hope that he’d regain some mental capabilities soon, and not just the feeling of rushing static surging through. 

He pursed his lips awkwardly then, and looked again out the window. The moon was always there, her glow soothing and restful, but Bilbo almost cursed her then, for she seemed to be a third party intruding on a private moment, and her light came off as playful and teasing, encouraging him to feel things he had shoved and hidden and locked away, hoped to never see again, had hoped to move on, wash his hands of the matter, and, if he was ever grieving or lonely, to simply move on, move on, for that was the only thing to do, trudging and trudging day by day, and the moon seemed to whisk all his walls and hard work gone until his desire and longing and sorrow was bared, and he felt flayed and raw to the bone. He was still looking and looking at Thorin and he couldn’t tell if Thorin was also replaying all the moments they had been together, every hug and conversation around the fire and everything in between. 

“Thorin,” He breathed, at last. For that seemed to be the extent of it, the summation of it all, one name and one breath, constantly on his mind, belonging to the one man he had thought he would never see again. As Thorin’s gaze was still locked onto his, never ceasing, steady and steady as always, the look in his eyes, once so guarded, now open and honest and frankly, adoring, looking at Bilbo, was enough to make Bilbo realize that this hadn’t changed at all. The flush of being under Thorin’s regard wasn’t something that time could tarnish, nor years could take. Even if friends, even just friends, there was something between them that Bilbo could never put a finger on. But now, with the moonlight spilling across the floor, the candles still burning, burning low, and Thorin’s deep and admiring regard, Bilbo felt like he could almost see that unsteady line between them. Would it hurt to cross it? Gathering up every bit of Tookish bravery he still had in him, he took a step forward, metaphorically and literally. 

He was close enough to Thorin so he reached out to cup Thorin’s face, brushing against the edges of his beard. “Thorin, I-. Well, heh. I must come out and say it then. I must, I must. Thorin, despite it all, I really do believe, sincerely believe, in fact, I do entirely know that I am thoroughly and altogether downright in love with you. I have been, and I still am, and I must come out and say it at once. I don’t know how long you intended on visiting Bag-End, but I am inviting you to stay.” He said, grasping Thorin’s hand with his own and holding it to his chest. “For as long as you would have me.” 

With this, Thorin spread his warm fingers against Bilbo’s smaller one, still grasping onto Thorin’s face, the other, trembling and clutched to his breast, and moved his head down to meet Bilbo’s. With a slight nod, their lips pressed against each other’s. Before, Thorin had thought that the wide halls of Erebor were what home felt like, but now, he knew home to be Bilbo himself, and this kiss, the first of a promise of many, solidified this fact. It didn’t match up to his dreams, it surpassed them. As they broke away, but still wrapped around each other, Thorin could only think one word. 

“Forever.”


End file.
